Читать книгу Little Red War Gods - Patrick PhD Marcus - Страница 12

The truck loomed over Archer, swallowing him in its shadow as it outran the sun.

Drums hammered somewhere in the distance.

Alvin could see letters forming into words in his brain: Kill him! As each character turned to sound, it seared his gray matter with a pain that finally erased the need to understand what was happening. Faster! He must die! He’s the reason you can’t find her...

“He’s as good as dead!” Alvin yelled in answer. One fat hand pushed a river of sweat from his eyes. Alvin’s head was bobbing up and down in time with his torso, a volcano of psychotic energy in the throes of eruption.

The odometer had climbed to 70 miles an hour. Impact with the intended target was imminent. Still the cyclist was unaware.

“He can’t live. His blood will engulf us!” Alvin babbled.

Mere seconds behind the cyclist, Alvin stamped his accelerator for all it was worth and lurched onto the shoulder. Alvin would strike his target with the back wheels and claim he’d never seen him in the truck’s blind spot. Pitching further into the deathblow, the truck’s huge back wheels tore up the curb behind Archer, the transition causing an out-of-control skid. Tires and cement collided in a startling cacophony. The lorry struck a letterbox before fishtailing violently back onto the street, its front end staggering uncontrollably.

The other truck didn’t have a chance when Alvin’s white lorry jumped back over the curb into oncoming traffic. The collision was earsplitting, and powerful enough to propel an unbuckled Alvin through his windshield and onto the hood of the eighteen-wheeler he’d just ploughed. His body rolled unceremoniously sideways, bounced off the torn left fender and onto the cement, where blood and mucus pooled around the flattened features of Alvin’s face.

From the moment Archer had gotten on his bicycle at Trinity College, he’d felt the rare feeling athletes have when their training and hard miles come together at just the right time. Anything was possible, even in spite of last night’s excessive pubbing with Alvin. As he bolted from Trinity’s gates into Dublin traffic, Archer had noticed the near-collision between the big white delivery truck, the red double-decker buses, and himself, but there wasn’t time to worry about who was at fault; it didn’t look like any real damage had been done anyway. Now was the time to enjoy the ride. Final exams were near and Archer was homesick for Wisconsin and his friends.

One song after another shuffled through Archer’s iPod as he charged down Stillorgan Street. Traffic had been great, the strain in his legs balanced, the sun as bright as it had been all summer. Slowing down to cut around a clot of students from University College, Archer suddenly felt the unusual sensation of his eyes staying fixed in one place while his body and bike continued forward. The exotic beauty holding his gaze with her provocative smile was gesturing for him to pull over; the motion of her hands pulling him toward her was curiously emphatic. Archer acted impulsively, turning hard up a dip in the sidewalk next to Seafield Road twenty feet from where she stood.

Archer’s reciprocal smile had only begun to form when alarm bells rang from deep within.

Horrible panic gripped him in an instant.

Archer couldn’t look over his shoulder in time to see what lurked behind. It was there already, wrapping its arms around him.

A violent roar thundered through his headphones, drowning reality.

Pressure from the collision of truck and rider left Archer oddly tranquil as his body lifted into the air and spun 180 degrees, his bicycle clattering away in another direction. What am I seeing? he thought, pain already ripping white-hot through his body.

An explosion of sound and heat engulfed him.

Archer’s ass landed first, tearing a large whole in the thin fabric of his cycling shorts as layer upon layer of cheek peeled away. A bump in the roadway caused his body to roll sideways for another ten feet, scraping elbows, hips, and knees for good measure.

Even after his body finally came to rest, Archer braced himself for more sensation. Ginger turns of his head revealed the scene: two trucks were buried in one another. Thick smoke poured from their crumpled hoods and fluids gushed across the pavement. Already cars were stopping and cell phones were jammed to ears. Archer could see one man moving in the truck furthest from him and was shocked to see the other driver, or someone, only feet away from him on the pavement.

Archer flushed at the sudden realization that it was a miracle he was still alive. If he hadn’t turned towards the girl when he did, moving several feet off the road in the process, he would have been hit head-on. It wasn’t a pretty thought. A crowd was already gathering, yet no one moved to help Archer. To him, the on-lookers seemed captured in a picture or deep water, unable or unwilling to help.

Just then he saw the prone man’s hand twitch. He reached to take it in his own, having crawled only a few feet to be at his side. Archer hoped the man was okay, though it was clear his body was laid at impossible angles. The prospect that the man might be dying sent a chill down Archer’s spine.

Pulling off a bloody cycling glove, Archer carefully placed his hand on the biggest hole in the man’s chest. He was surprised at how hot the blood was as it flowed out and around his fingers. Archer, more for himself than anyone else, nearly choked on reassurances. “Help is on the way. Just hang in there. You’ll be fine.”

For the first time, the man opened his eyes, and with unexpected strength wrapped his fingers around Archer’s own.

“Why am I smiling?” thought Alvin, blinking to clear his eyes. He was completely aware of what had happened and the unhappy fact that he was laying broken on the pavement. Pain rolled over him like an acid bath and he was finding it hard to breathe. His nose and mouth were full of blood. Each inhalation labored against crushed ribs and a punctured lung.

Alvin’s pained smile turned to surprise when he recognized the boy looking down at him as the one he’d just tried to kill. How could he have lived? he wondered blackly. But even as he thought it, the spell over him broke, his hatred suddenly remedied by the true kindness of his own gentle soul. “My name is Alvin,” he said. He was actually glad when the boy smiled back at him.

Suddenly Alvin wasn’t sure if his eyes were still open. Reality moved into darkness, bringing with it Alvin’s fear of impending death. He could sense several onlookers moving closer, the circle of their bodies drawing tight, making it harder to breath.

“My name is Archer,” the boy said.

“That’s a funny name,” Alvin replied, his face inquisitive against the pain. “Even funnier and me having met a lad of that name just a night ago.”

Alvin was glad he could see the boy’s smile grow as he realized who lay before him. “Alvin! My God, Alvin, it’s me. It’s me, Archer. You met me last night.” By the time Archer finished gushing out the words, he’d begun to cry. His lips grew taut.

“Well it is you, Archer, in’t it?” said Alvin, squeezing Archer’s fingers harder. “Thanks be to God you’ve lived.”

“I’m fine, Alvin. Don’t worry about me. Help is on the way.” Archer looked frantically up at the crowd and was reminded of the one-dimensional faces gathered in pews at church.

“How’s my truck?” Alvin coughed.

“It could use a polish.”

Alvin tried to laugh in response, but only succeeded in covering his chin in bloody sputum. “I don’ know what happened.” His smashed face looked as serious as he could make it. “One minute I was resting in my cab, and the next I was trying to kill you.”

“It was an accident,” replied Archer. “Just hold on. Try not to talk. The paramedics will sort it all out.” Archer’s mind hadn’t begun to try to comprehend what had actually happened.

Just then, Alvin opened the fingers of his other hand and lifted something to his face. It was the picture of Tatiana, torn from the keychain. Tears rolled from his eyes, diluting the blood on his cheeks.

“She’s beautiful,” Archer said.

For a long second, neither of them spoke.

“Come closer,” Alvin whispered, trying to lift his head.

Archer leaned in so close their faces almost touched. He could hear Alvin’s chest gurgling.

“Is it really true your twin brother’s an Indian?”

Archer was surprised by the question but nodded affirmation.

“Archer! I can’t be sure. I can only think of one thing that makes any sense at all. I think that black man had something to do with all this. I’ve been having terrible dreams and he’s been in every one of them. I felt him in me life, in me living day. Every night they come, the Indians in their paint, to drag me from my bed, to murder me…” Archer strained to hear Alvin’s words, fast growing softer than a whisper.

Archer well remembered their conversation about Indians and their depressed moods, but he’d let the alcohol temper its importance. He’d spent this morning drinking lots of water, eating lots of pasta, and reaffirming his belief that his nightmares and sullen mood were due to his own unique circumstances.

Archer thought it remarkable that blood no longer pumped out of the hole beneath his hands. Several seconds clicked past, Archer expecting the next word from Alvin, almost desperate to hear it. His mind raced with questions.

“Alvin?” But even as he whispered the name, he realized the gurgling sound had rumbled to nothing. Tears streamed with renewed force as Alvin bowed his head and squeezed Archer’s fingers for the last time. The picture of Tatiana beneath his left hand rested over his heart.